


27

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7452409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete looked at the pills in his hands. He could overdose. He could just do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	27

**Author's Note:**

> im so sorry  
> heavy tw for death, suicide and overdosing

Pete looked at the pills in his hands. He could overdose. He could just do it. It wasn't going to be that hard. He was twenty-seven at the moment, how ironic. Three days away from his birthday, and he was planning on killing himself.

It wouldn't affect anyone, anyway, would it? He wasn't in the mood to think about Patrick, Joe or Andy. He just wanted to die. He repressed the bile rising up his throat and the tears threating to come out.

He clenched his fists, crushing the pills in the process. He was in his house's kitchen, and he took some water before he put the pills in the glass and waited for them to dissolve. When it was done, he already felt ready.

There was no turning back now, and the suicide note hung in his bedroom door. He wasn't going to regret this if he lived. Not like he was going to, anyway.

He drank all of the water at once. It felt like his insides were on fire, and he retched a few times as he fell unconscious to the floor.

And, Pete Wentz, with twenty-seven and 362 days of life, died that way, overdosing on mood stabilizers.

—&—

"THIS IS A SICK JOKE, RIGHT?" Patrick yelled at the top of his lungs when Joe informed him. He couldn't believe what his ears heard. He didn't want to believe it.

"Trick, Pete is dead. His corpse is on his house. I went to see him and he was there," Joe said, his voice cracking. The memory was painful in his mind; there wasn't anything there but Pete's corpse, but his eyes were so full of pain it made his heart hurt.

Patrick took the keys from Joe's hands and opened the door. He went out of the house before slamming it shut. This late April's fools joke was terrible, in his opinion. Why would Pete do that? It was merely a joke, he reassured himself as he kept walking towards Pete's house.

When he got there, he entered and opened the front door quickly. The living room smelled of death and it made Patrick throw up automatically. His sides hurted by when he got up from the floor, and his glance searched for Pete.

"Pete?" he said under his breath. And then he saw what he didn't want to see. A glass was on Pete's hands, which didn't have a firm grip on it. His glazed over eyes were emotionless, and his mouth was slightly open in a silent plea.

"PETE!" He hollered soon enough, and he gripped at Pete's shirt uselessly. He tried to get him up, but the motionless body was so heavy it was impossible. He laid next to his chest, letting fat tears run through his cheeks, wetting Pete's shirt.

"No," he murmured weakly, his voice cracking. "No, no, no." He closed his eyes and let out more cries, feeling absolutely miserable. "Why?" he asked to no one. "Why, Pete? Why?"

Something catched his eye, and his breathing hitched when he saw what it was. A rather long note, and Patrick knew exactly what it was.

Pete's suicide note.

—&—

_Hello, my name is Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, but everyone knows me as Pete Wentz. I'm the bassist and lyricist of Fall Out Boy, and I've decided to kill myself three days away from my birthday. Why, you might ask._

_well, in summary, my mental health is as fragile as when it was 2005, and I've felt too tired and overwhelmed to continue with my life. And so, I've decided to end it this way._

_Don't cry for me, and don't make my funeral too much of a deal. It was for the best, really, how this had to end. Now, I wanted to say a few words to those who matter the most to me:_

_For Bronx: I'm sorry your dad was such a mess. I think Ashlee, your mom, won't want to take care of you, so that's Patrick's job now. He's only twenty-two, but he's really great, and you'll be happy for him to be your father when you're older._

_For Ashlee: I'm sorry I couldn't be a better husband. I'm sorry for the constant fights and the constant pain I put you through. Dating a bipolar dude was too hard, wasn't it?_

_For Patrick: I love you. Don't blame yourself for this. I love you so much, and this was for the best._

_For Joe: You were a great friend. Good luck with whatever you'll do with your life now. Have a great life with Andy, shall you?_

_For Andy: I met you after I met Trick and Joe, but you're such a great friend. I hope you have a happy life with Joe. Please don't let this affect you too much._

_For everybody that ever listened to FOB: I'm so thankful for you, guys. Whether you hated us, or loved us, whether we saved your life or helped you cope, I'm so thankful. Thank you for everything._

_Have a great life, everyone._

_\- Pete Wentz._

Patrick couldn't believe this. Pete took so long writing a suicide note -- because the date was there, and it dated from May 29th, not June 2nd. And he had transferred the parenting to him, to no-one but him.

He took a deep breath and started crying again, consumed by a long, black darkness that seemed to eat him alive.

—&—

It's my fault, it's my fault, it's my fault. The thought ate him alive, and he was going to cry again as he got into Joe's house.

"So?" Joe asked. He seemed frail and way more old than he was a few hours ago.

"You didn't see the note, did you?" Patrick said, and Joe shook his head. He gave him the paper and Joe raised and eyebrow as he sat on the couch with Andy.

After some minutes, he was kind of crying, and he handed it to Andy, who read it quickly. "I... what the fuck," Joe said softly, trying to dry his tears.

Patrick let out a soft cry as he hid his face behind his hands, not believing it again.

—&—

"This is your new dad," Ashlee said, eyeing Patrick awkwardly.

"What about daddy?" Bronx asked, obviously talking about Pete.

Patrick scratched the back of his neck and sighed. "He's away for a bit," he told Bronx, and he regrets it almost at the second. "My name is Patrick, and I'll take care of you."

"Dadda loves you," Bronx spoke, his squeaky, child voice adorable. Patrick tried not to cry with those words.

"I know," he muttered, caressing Bronx's head as they entered Patrick's house in silence. Patrick looked at Ashlee, nodded, and she left with that, glad to not have to say anymore.

The band had disbanded after Pete's sudden death, and there had been too many articles about his death. The funeral had been quiet and peaceful, anyway, and only Pete's parents and friends had assisted to it.

Patrick was trying to keep going with his life, but it was really hard to act like nothing ever happened. He had a few songs in the making, and he had to lose weight to remain healthy. He had dyed his hair a few days before seeing Bronx.

He sighed as he let Bronx in his newly made room, with toys and all that stuff for him to play with. Patrick sat down and took his guitar, strumming it absently.

When he started singing, Bronx peeked out of the room, and Patrick said he could go listen to him if he wanted. Bronx sat next to him, and Patrick started singing lyrics he actually knew.

"It's gonna get better, it's gonna work out. Give it a minute, it's gonna turn around. Cause it's gonna get better, better. So coast with me."

"Dad has a good voice!" Bronx called, wriggling his fingers excitedly.

Patrick smiled and nodded.

Maybe not everything was bad, after all.


End file.
